Alas, Poor Eponine!
by AMarguerite
Summary: Eponine is terribly distressed, and this shall be mentioned at least once every chapter. An author tries to remedy this situation, and creates... Eppie Sue! Gasp!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Victor Hugo owns these characters._

_A/N: I have lost my mind, I think, and have taken a break from my quest to write strange parodies of Eppie- Sues. Forgive the temporary (or so I hope) loss of sanity._

* * *

Eponine was terribly distressed, for she had found herself in a hopeless position: she was the unwanted stalker of a law student.

Though stalking a handsome young man is something nearly every teenage girl does, it is hardly a proud pastime, and many a girl, after overcoming their infatuation with their stalkee, ends up frustrated at the time they wasted on said handsome young man.

This, however, comes with the wisdom bestowed by disappointment (should one have the ability to learn from one's mistakes). Eponine had not yet reached that point.

Also, she had not learned much from her mistakes in the past few years. It didn't help that her character was about to undergo a drastic re-write.

But let us leave off the foreshadowing, for, though a useful literary device, it is a bit too sophisticated for a parody. In any case, Eponine was terribly distressed.

Not only was she infatuated with (quite literally) the boy next door, but she was having problems with lice once again. Not to mention the fleas….

Sulking in the stairwell by Monsieur Marius's door proved an itchy business, for the fleas were acting up terribly, and Eponine couldn't sulk, as she wished, in the shadows, patiently staring at Monsieur Marius's door. Instead, she was seated in the middle of the steps, scratching her side. Then, inelegantly, she scratched at her head, muttering obscenities under her breath. Having lice is never much fun, and if you add that to fleas and the normal teen angst multiplied by poverty squared, and then you add some angst due to the fact that Eponine had gone a bit mad from lack of food, sanitary conditions, and heat, bearing in mind that all angst is a Factor Of Life, and, thus, divisible by True Love, you find that, not only are you confused by whatever the author is trying to say in this sentence, but that Eponine was terribly distressed.

This, however, was a fact you were already aware of, being an astute reader who cannot fail to notice something repeated three times in a chapter.

But let us return to our itchy heroine. As she sat and scratched herself, a voice was heard. Contrary to whatever _deux ex machina_ you were expecting (though a highly useful literary device, it is far too sophisticated for a parody), the grating, raspy voice of her father was bellowing. "'Ponine, you lazy slut! Can't you do nothing right? You lost the letters!"

"Did not," Eponine replied, scratching the back of her neck with force. "I returned 'em. You saw. Azelma and I'll deliver them today."

"Best do it, clumsy girl. And wear shoes when you go out. Ain't respectable for a girl to go around barefoot."

'Whatever' is the standard response for these situations; however, the word is not easily translated into French, and it is also an anachronism. Therefore, Eponine did not respond with "What_ever_!"

Instead, Eponine grunted, "I hate those shoes. They squish your feet and snow gets in 'em and sloshes around. I won't wear 'em."

"You will if I tell you too!"

Eponine, in the manner any rebellious teen can sympathize with, grumpily stormed up the stars, scratching herself all the while, when she fell into an Improbable Twist of the Plot, by falling through a rotten board in the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

When Eponine awoke, she swore very loudly and inelegantly, before returning to the interrupted task she had been pursuing: namely, scratching herself.

"Hello!" chirped an anachronistic voice. "You must be Eponine!"

Eponine grunted an '_oui_' and squinted at the young girl standing in front of her. The girl was (shockingly) fully clothed, in a pair of strange, tight- looking blue trousers, and what appeared to be a strangely altered chemise with a picture on it, and a ragged hat that looked much like the one Eponine suddenly found on her head.

"Your chemise has writing on it," Eponine remarked, grinning, and thus revealing all of her missing teeth. "It says, '_Les Miserables_'. I can read, you know. My mum taught me."

The girl blinked several times in surprise. Eponine went back to being terribly distressed, by virtue of the facts that: one, she was stalking a law student who ignored her; two, she was infected with both fleas and lice; three, she would have to wear shoes; four, she would have to deliver letters, which severely cut into her allotted Time Spent Sulking In Front Of Marius's Door, and; five, she had just fallen through the floor.

"O…kay," the girl replied, in order to add a further anachronism to the chapter. "But you're, like… terribly distressed… right?"

"Yep," Eponine replied, scratching herself.

"Well, I'm here to help you!" the girl declared brightly. "I've heard the _Wicked_ soundtrack, like… twice, so I can act like Glinda and turn you into a pretty, pretty princess!" The girl ignored the actual plot of _Wicked_ and its actual characterization of Glinda, because the truth, though a marvelously useful literary devise and concept, is _far_ too sophisticated for a parody.

Eponine grunted in response, and wondered if all the candles in this girl's candelabra were lit.

"So, um…." The girl looked around the bare and decrepit room they were in and spied a copy of Victor Hugo's '_Les Miserables_'. "Oh! That'll do!"

Very gleefully, she began ripping out random pages at will.

Eponine was engulfed in a blue cloud of sparkling dust that belonged fully to Disney's classic _Cinderella_ and had an asthmatic attack, for respect of other peoples' and companies' copyright laws have no place in a parody.

And Eponine was, once more, terribly distressed, bringing the number of times the author has mentioned this fact to six.


	3. Chapter 3

When Eponine was able to breathe once more, she was perfectly groomed, her clothes were spotless, and her lice had vanished. Eponine was terribly distressed, because she had grown rather attached to her lice, and decided to go look for them, completely ignoring the girl beaming at her, and the voices shouting from above, "Eponine! Where are you, you slut?"

Eponine swept out of the room with the grace of a swan floating lazily in the Luxembourg gardens before it is bombarded by sweetbread from spoiled young boys ignoring the starving gamins behind him, or before a swan swimming in the Seine is whammed into by a suicidal police inspector. Once outside, Eponine blinked to adjust her eyes to the sunlight and stopped upon seeing Monsieur Marius, looking slightly panicked and flipping through a law textbook. He was mumbling to himself distractedly, his head bare and his hat jammed haphazardly under his arm.

For Eponine, the world stood still, as if some golden- haired, eloquent Apollo launched a fearsome rhetoric about the need for several men to flee from the barricade and save their lives before realizing that no one had actually listened and decided to leave.

Eponine was suddenly overcome with a fit of giggles, and she delicately waved a lace handkerchief at him. Where she had gotten the handkerchief will not be explained, because a continuous plot bereft of nonsensical moments is also far too sophisticated for a parody.

"Monsieur Marius! It's me, your Eponine!" Her normal voice, which sounded like a frog with chronic heartburn being put through a marble grinder, had been replaced with a sultry and alluring alto, warm and melodious as a sultry summer evening spent in a garden with a wrought iron fence before one's father realizes what's going on and immediately relocates to England. Eponine fluttered her eyelashes at him and smiled demurely, yet coquettishly, as any Marie Suzette worth her salt would have done.

Marius glanced at her, looking terrified, and broke into a trot, thinking that whoever this Eponine was, she was going to mock his clothing. Marius, though wearing his best coat because he had an examination that afternoon, lived in mortal fear that someone would notice the dust on his boots and mock him mercilessly.

Eponine pouted prettily, admired the alliteration, and then remembered that alliteration, though a very useful literary device, has no place in a parody, and promptly pretended it had never happened.

On her way strolling down the suddenly clean Parisian avenues in the slums near the tenement house in which her Twu Wuv resided, she met a ragged looking woman attempting to sell charms.

"One for you, Missy?" she croaked, sounding a lot like Eponine once had.

Now normally, Eponine would spout something nonsensical, and if she wanted something, she'd nick it whilst the crone was looking in the opposite direction. But now, Eponine was moved with pity, and replied, with tears sparkling in her sky-blue, amber- flecked, purple- tinted eyes that occasionally turned green, "Oh, you poor soul!"

She pulled several sous from thin air, and declared, "These are all I have to live on, but you many have them all!"

The woman looked at her in stunned amazement and replied, "You're barmy."

Once more, Eponine was terribly distressed.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Eponine was through being distressed, she pressed the sous into the old woman's palm.

The woman, apparently feeling sorry for her, rummaged around in her basket and pulled out a doll.

"I 'ave a feeling you'll need this," she said. "This 'ere is a, um… whatchacallit. I nicked it off an old gypsy what's tried to take my spot."

Eponine took the doll and examined it, for, quite suddenly, she found herself surprisingly well-informed for never having gone to school, heard a lecture, read a book, or done any sums. Not that sums really had anything to do with Eponine's sudden knowledge of the doll's function; however, continuity and sense, though highly praised and necessary qualities for a story,are too sophisticated for a parody. Superfluous phrases, however, are quite on the level of Parodies of Dubious Quality. "This," Princess Eponine declared, holding the doll aloft, "is a voodoo doll. And… oh! It looks like the Lark!"

The doll did indeed look like the Lark: it had large blue eyes, curls of brown hair, and a startled expression.

Eponine gasped. "This is the perfect revenge on the girl who made my childhood a nightmare, and who deviously stole away my One True Love! Not only that, but she is a stupid, conniving, self- centered brat, who would never care for anyone besides herself, despite the fact that she was raised in a convent!"

The old woman rummaged through her basket once more and pulled out a Sparknotes version of _Les Miserables._ "Now look- I've only got the Sparknotes, but I fink you've got your story mixed up-"

Eponine ignored her, and cried, in a ringing voice, like the bells of _Notre Dame_ in a terrible Disney portrayal of a classic work of nineteen century French literature, "Marius will love me!"

"Dincha learn anyfing from the book?" the old woman asked, looking rather sorry that she had ever given Eponine anything.

"No," Eponine replied.

"Oh," the old woman said, more to say something than to actually contribute to the conversation. "Where's you goin' then?"

"To the Luxembourg gardens!" Eponine cried, mutli-colored eyes alight with purpose, voice ringing. "My beloved Marius will see Cosette for what she truly is!" She struck out at a fast pace, boot heels (for she suddenly found she had very nice half- boots, that even the Lark would approve of) clacking on the pavement with the full force of her determination. Several dogs ran away in terror.

The old woman was left staring, open- mouthed, at the retreating figure of the Eppie-Suzette. "That one's barmy, really." The woman consulted her Sparknotes. "Oh… I shouldn't've given it to 'er. And why, all of a sudden, 'ave I got a Cockney accent? Fis is supposed to be Paris, the cap'i'ol of France!"

Her question remained unanswered, for accurate accents are a too sophisticated for a parody.


	5. Chapter 5

Because Eponine kept betting stopped by young men who had fallen in love with her at first sight, all of whom wanted to take her out to lunch and then to a chapel to be married, Eponine not only ate several lovely meals, but also got rather lost (true characterizations, you see, are _far, **far, far **_too sophisticated for a parody) and ended up in the Luxembourg rather late in the afternoon.

In the Luxembourg Gardens, several couples were innocently strolling along the gravel pathways, ignoring the persistent chaperones that trailed behind them. One medical student appeared to be having some sort of heart failure in front of a large fountain, and a law student was cheerfully keeping him from falling into the water.

Eponine looked carefully around the park, through demurely lowered eyelashes. Men stopped and stared at her as she walked by, causing their sweethearts to a) burst into tears, b) hit their beaus with parasols, c) drag said beaus away forcefully, or d) fall into a fainting fit. Though d) fall into a fainting fit was very popular, the young ladies were not caught, and ended up glaring at the sky, irritated that they had gotten their dresses dirty.

Eponine paid no attention to the young men, for her heart belonged to Her One True Love, and she would never be unfaithful.

She soon spotted the Object of Her Dubious Affections, skimming a copy of Voltaire's _Candide _on a park bench, looking pensive and slightly worried. A rosy blush colored Eponine's suddenly clean and alabaster pale cheeks. This was an oxymoron, for if Eponine suddenly had perfect, porcelain colored skin in a sentance, and cheeks of marble fairness, why would her cheeks also be rosy _in the same sentance_? However, oxymorons are perfect literary devices for Parodies of Doubtful Quality, and so Eponine's lovely pale skin was tinted with a rosy blush.

All of a sudden, Eponine's perfect view of Marius was blocked by an elderly gentleman walking with his daughter.

"Well, Papa, I thought that gamin was adorable, even if he did steal my purse," the girl commented brightly, adjusting her shawl.

"Let us be glad you weren't hurt," her father advised, patting her gloved hand.

"I suppose he needed it much more than I did," the girl replied dubiously, before catching sight of Marius sitting on his park bench and falling silent.

Eponine gasped in astonishment, hand to her heart. "It's the LARK!"

The elderly gentleman turned around, looking uneasy. "Excuse me, are you all right?"

"No," gasped Eponine dramatically.

His daughter turned around and regarded Eponine with worried blue eyes. "Is there anything we can do to help you?"

Eponine could only gasp in surprise upon viewing her childhood slave, um…companion.

"I notice you've been gasping quite a bit," the Lark continued on, holding out a gloved hand. "Are you having trouble breathing? We can escort you to a bench, if you like." Then leaning in a bit, and looking slightly abashed, the Lark whispered, "Are your corsets too tight? I never can breathe when mine are."

"No," Eponine replied haughtily. "My waist is naturally eighteen inches wide."

"Wish mine was," the Lark said wistfully.

"'Thou shalt not envy', Cosette," the elderly gentleman reminded her gently.

Cosette sighed, then asked, "Are you sure we can't help you?"

Eponine toyed with the idea of telling the Lark that she had a wonderful friend named Montparnasse that the Lark would enjoy meeting, much like how a quiet, idealistic poet who liked to frolic through fields of flowers would enjoy meeting a young artillery sergeant with a carbine and a firing squad, but was far too well- bred. The oxymoron was lost on dear Eponine Suzanne Marie Antoinette Thenardier, for her fall through an Improbable Twist of the Plot had resulted in Severe Brain Damage as well. "No," Eponine replied sorrowfully, "for my One True Love shall never notice me!" She commenced to weeping.

"Would you like my handker… oh, I think it was in my purse. Papa?"

The elderly man held out a spotlessly clean handkerchief, which Eponine took with a grateful sob of thanks.

"Um… are you _sure_ we can't help you?" Cosette asked, her blue eyes wide with innocence.

Eponine continued to sob. Several young men rushed up to offer her their handkerchiefs, their condolences, their shoulder to cry on, their hand in marriage, etc. as the elderly gentleman propelled the Lark away, and several very disgruntled young women dusted off their dresses.

Eponine abruptly stopped sobbing, seeing the Lark approach Marius's bench with her father.

"My heart is already engaged," Eponine cried dramatically, rushing from her crowd of admirers.

With her perfect eyesight, Eponine could see the embroidery on the Lark's black silk walking dress, and the blush that colored Marius's cheeks.

"Not on my watch," Eponine growled, shoving her handkerchief into her pocket and pulling out her voodoo doll.

There she was, that insolent girl! Looking at Marius like that… it wasn't to be allowed! Eponine clenched her fist tightly. The Lark began gasping for air, stopped in her tracks, and fell onto Marius's lap, whilst clutching her throat and turning rather blue.

"Oh, are you all right?" Marius asked, looking slightly pleased and extremely startled.

Eponine loosened her grip on the voodoo doll in dismay.

Cosette gasped and coughed, and then, blushing, looked up at Marius. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't breathe, so I suppose I-" Eponine dropped the doll in despair.

Cosette immediately fell unconscious with a concussion. And Eponine was terribly distressed.


	6. Chapter 6

"Cosette, wake up!" demanded the elderly gentleman, picking up his daughter.

"Oh dear," Marius added, looking distressed. "Joly! Help!"

A young medical student walked over, rubbing his nose with the knob of his cane. "What seems to be the problem, Marius? I for one am sure I have tuberculosis, but you look to be perfectly healthy." Joly coughed into a spotlessly clean handkerchief.

"This young lady is unconscious," Marius replied, pointing at Cosette with his book.

"Did she hit her head?" Joly asked seriously, after coughing into his handkerchief.

"Who are you?" the elderly gentleman asked in bewilderment.

"Joly, medical student, at your service," Joly replied, with a hacking cough and a sweeping bow.

Eponine took a step closer to her beloved Marius, who surely needed to be consoled for the Lark's loss of consciousness. She happened to step on the voodoo doll, causing Cosette to sit up in her father's arms, clutch her stomach, and gasp for breath again.

Eponine hastily picked up her foot and scurried over to Marius, before seeing a young gamin pick up the doll in interest.

"Don't touch that!" Eponine screamed, before tripping over the hem of her skirt and falling onto the ground in a dramatic and eye-catching fashion.

The gamin grinned at her. "Hello, sis! Don't you look nice? Like a pretty, pretty princess or something." The gamin turned his attention to the doll. "And what have we here? A new student at the Gamin's School of Dance! And... What's that? You must learn the tarantella before tonight's ball? We must begin immediately!" The young boy began making the doll dancearound wildly in the dirt, and, after tossing the doll on the ground, added some spins and jerking movements for good measure. He played with all the unrestrained glee of a ninety-year-old grandfather who had reconciled with his grandson after a years-long estrangement through said grandson's wounds due to a failed insurrection and the subsequent trip through the sewer septic system of Paris.

Cosette fell out of her father's arms and began writhing around in the dirt.

"She's having a seizure!" Joly declared, loudly.

"Good God!" Marius cried.

"Cosette!" the elderly gentleman moaned, tearing at his hair.

Gavroche, for that was the gamin's name, spun his new doll in circles, tossed it into the air, and twisted its arms back.

Cosette, now yelping in pain, continued to have what appeared to be a severe epileptic fit. Eponine could only watch in muted horror and amazement. Then she looked around the park and focused on a stray dog. After all, the Lark rather deserved to have an epileptic fit, and the dog was a very pretty golden retriever.

Perhaps, if she had a dog, Marius would see her compassion and kindness and-

"Ooh, dog!" cried Gavroche, spotting the dog. "You must be rewarded for your faithful service to the republic!" Gavroche threw the voodoo doll at the dog.

The dog sniffed it uninterestedly.

Cosette, looking rather red in the face, stood, put a hand to her hair, which was falling out of its pins, and apologized sincerely for any trouble she might have caused.

The dog then thought the voodoo doll would make a very good chew toy, and began to gnaw on it. Cosette began to scream again, and clutched at herself.

"Something's biting me!" Cosette yelled, terrified. "Oh, ouch! God help me!"

"Biting?" repeated Joly, frowning. "She must have malaria then, though I don't know any cases where the patient became epileptic. Of course, we haven't covered malaria yet…."

Marius worriedly swatted at some gnats with _Candide_. "I think there are mosquitoes around!"

The elderly gentleman attempted to restrain his daughter. "Where does it hurt Cosette?"

"Everywhere!" Cosette exclaimed, panicked.

The dog began to gnaw on the doll's torso.

"Owowowowowowowow- can't breathe," Cosette gasped, clutching her stomach and doubling over in pain.

If Eponine had been less elegant, her jaw would have dropped. As it was, Eponine's multi-colored eyes were wide with shock, her long lashes fluttering in disbelief, like a pair of sable-colored butterflies before they were killed by asphyxiation due to the smoke of an industrialized factory in a small sea-side village with an entrepreneur/escaped convict as the mayor. Though the Lark thoroughly deserved all the miserable things that were happening to her, Eponine still pitied her.

"She's not breathing!" the elderly gentleman, who Eponine conveniently remembered was convict 24601, Jean Valjean, currently calling himself Ultime Fauchelevent.

"Give her CPR!" Joly exclaimed, coughing and hitting Marius with his cane.

"Isn't that anachronistic?" Marius inquired, looking at Cosette with concern.

"Do you know anything about nineteenth century medicine?" Joly demanded, hitting Marius with his cane again.

"Ow! You remind me of my grandfather when you do that!"

Joly coughed. "Do you?"

"No," Marius admitted.

"Neither does the author."

"Why, God, why?" wailed Jean Valjean, sobbing over Cosette's hand.

"How do you do CPR?" Marius asked, looking nervous.

"Pinch her nose, cover her mouth with yours and blow until you see the chest rise," Joly informed him, before taking a brief coughing break. "I would myself, but I've got tuberculosis."

"Oh dear," Marius said, before performing the aforementioned operation.

"All is lost," Valjean wept disconsolately, still holding Cosette's limp hand. "I have no reason for living! I wish I could die!"

Eponine ground her white, even, sparkling teeth. How could the Lark mean that much to anyone? The Lark was a nasty, selfish, evil person out only to steal every joy away from Eponine.

But, all the same, Eponine was kind, generous, and compassionate. Therefore, she couldn't stand to see another living creature hurt. She flung herself at the dog and engaged in a tug of war with it.

Fortunately, Eponine grabbed the doll by the torso. Unfortunately, the dog still held onto the Lark's leg. So when Eponine yanked the doll out of the dog's mouth and released her grip, Cosette opened her eyes, screamed, and felt excruciating pain in her left leg. She also felt someone's mouth on hers and screamed again.

Marius stood abruptly and blushed.

Valjean hugged the Lark tightly to his chest. "You're alive! Praise God!"

"Did he just kiss me?" Cosette asked dazedly.

"CPR," Marius muttered, turning completely pink. "I'm very sorry, but you weren't breathing. I really had no other choice-"

"Are you all right?" Joly asked kindly, before engaging in a coughing fit.

"My left leg hurts," Cosette replied, still looking rather dazed.

"Can you move the left side of your body, as well as the right?" Joly asked, with some concern.

Cosette pushed the hair out of her eyes with her left hand. "Yes."

"Good." Joly hummed to himself before coughing rather violently for a minute straight. "Oops! Looks like I'll be dead by Tuesday at this rate."

"How can I ever thank you both?" Valjean asked, with grateful tears in his eyes.

"Dinner would be lovely," Joly replied pleasantly. "Though you probably should hold it before Tuesday, because I think I shall be dead, then."

"Of course," Cosette murmured, as if everything were perfectly normal. Then she blushed and hid her flushed face in her (dirty) gloved hands. "I think my reputation has been compromised."

"Oh dear," Marius replied, blushing. "Is there… is there anything I can do to remedy the situation?"

"Marriage is standard," Joly remarked, before coughing into his handkerchief.

Everyone fell completely silent, except for Joly, who continued to cough.

"What a day," Marius remarked, almost at random. "First I take Blondeau's exam and upset him by being thirty seconds late, then I find myself engaged to someone I don't really know."

And, once more, Eponine was terribly, terribly distressed.


	7. Chapter 7

Eponine was, in fact, so distressed, that she continued to be distressed into the next chapter. In fact, she was so terribly, terribly, terribly distressed that she remained distressed until the end of the first paragraph.

Come to think of it, she was still distressed in the second paragraph, too. That's how terribly distressed she was. Alas, the distress was very great!

But by the third paragraph, she was not quite so distressed, and her astute mind began to work furiously. What she would need, she decided, was the Brightest Legal Mind in Paris, to get Marius out of this proposed idea of marriage. Unless she could find a lawyer, or someone else with some sort of political and/or social power, to completely trash Cosette's reputation, so Marius would reject her entirely because she was unsuitable. Cosette, of course, already was unsuitable baggage, but Marius didn't know that. Yet.

But, alas, that was foreshadowing, and as we have already stated before, foreshadowing, though a useful literary device, has no place in a parody.

After waving away several gentlemen who wished to marry her, for her heart belonged to Her One True Love (though, as we have mentioned, truth has no place in a parody) and she would remain Faithful Unto Death.

Or until she caught the eye of… the One Who Would Rival Her One True Love!

However, this is blatant foreshadowing, and it would be best for the readers to ignore the previous sentence, because foreshadowing, though a useful literary device, has no place in a Parody of Lamentable Quality.

So Eponine stood, her silken skirts trailing in the dust, much like an innocent, childlike young woman following her lover even though he planned to abandon her as a rather odd and unfunny practical joke that afternoon, and realized, Alas! Aside from her Beloved Marius, she didn't know any lawyers! She was so distressed, tears fell from her eyes. Her tears, clinging to her inch-long, curled, jet-black eyelashes, sparkled like stars in the Parisian skies at night, while depressed lawyers wrote poetry about them, and musical police officers sang about them, and handsome young murders attempted to steal from elderly gentlemen of surprising strength under them.

"I shall faint!" cried Princess Eponine in despair. "For my One True Love is blind, and I know no lawyers!" Upon seeing a law student strolling by aimlessly, she did.

Faint, that is.

Unfortunately, that law student was Bousset, otherwise known as Laigle the Luckless. Eponine fell to the ground; Laigle vainly caught thin air, tripped over her, and flew, like a true eagle, into the fountain behind her.

Once more, Eponine was terribly distressed.


	8. Chapter 8

Laigle removed himself from the fountain with his usual good humor. "Well, I many now claim my bathtub is worth over two hundred francs." He paused when he saw Eponine, his heartbeat speeding. "My… dear lady, have I hurt you?"

As Eponine was unconscious as well as distressed, she made no reply.

Laigle regarded Eponine's lovely, pale, melancholy, and classically yet unorthodoxly beautiful face and forgot he was standing in a fountain in the middle of the Jardin de Luxembourg. He was in the glorious throws of true love, when young law students are likely to gibber incoherently at their friends, eat ravenously for no apparent reason, stare at all passing women so happily they all assumed said law student was in love with them, and obsess over dropped handkerchiefs with mysterious initials.

"I'm in love," Laigle whispered. "And, most surprisingly, not with Joly _or_ Joly's mistress!"

Combeferre, who was passing by, looked at Bousset oddly before being stopped in his tracks at the sight of the fallen Eponine. Combeferre carefully polished his glasses and regarded Princess Eponine's perfect figure and classic facialfeatures. "She's more beautiful than a _Danaus plexippus_- a monarch butterfly!" Combeferre sighed happily. "Or even a _Graphium macelayanus_ or a _Cissia hesione_!"

"Your fascination with butterflies is rather disconcerting," Laigle replied somewhat absently. "But not as disconcerting as this lovely woman's beauty."

"I always found Jehan's habit of frolicking through fields of blooming flowers disconcerting, but I never mentioned it," Combeferre retorted, pushing his glasses up his nose. "And I usually draw moths. But, ah! What do I care? I have found true love!"

Laigle snapped out of his Eppie-Sue induced haze. "What? No you haven't! She's my true love!"

"Isn't Joly your true love?" Combeferre replied in a waspish, extremely out- of- character manner.

"You can't believe everything you read scrawled on the back wall of the Law School building," Laigle snapped, "or in the swimming school, or in the lavatories, or in the back room of Café Musain, or in the baths, or in Courfeyrac's notes, or in-"

"She awakes, like a _Papilio glaucas_ emerging from its cocoon," Combeferre interrupted rapturously, clutching his book to his chest in the acutest of… well, raptures.

"Ah, me: Where is my Romeo?" Eponine quoted sadly, for whilst she was unconscious she had managed to memorize the entire works of Shakespeare. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."

"The lady stirs!" Laigle exclaimed, now spastic with joy.

Combeferre frowned at him. "That line comes _before _'Where is my Romeo'."

"I care not!" retorted Laigle, trying to get out of the fountain. "I am spastic with joy!" And, indeed, he was.

"Why do so many people seem to suffer from seizures?" Joly exclaimed loudly, looking worriedly at Bousset whilst running towards him. He paused to cough, then saw our Beloved Princess Eponine, sitting sorrowfully in the dirt and looking Tragically Beautiful or Beautifully Tragic. Your pick.

"All thoughts of hypochondria, Laigle, or Musichetta have fled," Joly breathed. "I am in love!"

"Where is my Beloved Marius?" Eponine wailed, hiding her classic features, long eyelashes, perfectly shaped eyebrows, and sparkling sky-blue, amber- flecked, purple- tinted eyes that occasionally turned green between elegantly gloved and perfectly manicured hands.

"Forget him," Combeferre cajoled, dropping his book and falling into a Black Hole of Out-of Character Behavior. "He is unworthy of your loveliness."

"So are you!" cried Joly, hitting Combeferre with his cane.

"You don't deserve her any more than he does!" snapped Bousset, lunging at his best friend and roommate with all the fearsome force of an escaped convict attempting to defend an innocent young woman, who unfortunately turned to prostitution, from a police inspector before they both burst into song in a Tony award-winning musical.

"Shove off!" replied Joly with out-of-character brutality and rudeness. With that the three Amis got into a knock-out, drag-down fistfight.

Eponine remained distressed.


	9. Chapter 9

Several minutes later, the Amis finished their fistfight. Laigle had broken Combeferre's glasses, and thus saved him from the Black Hole of Out-of Character Behavior. Joly fell over onto the gravel pathway, clutching his heart and diagnosing himself.

"If only I had that mirror, so I could examine my tongue," Joly moaned pitifully.

"I think Laigle broke it," Combeferre informed a mossy statue. "I say Joly, maybe you should be worried. You're as pale as marble." Combeferre paused to squint. "I think."

Laigle, for some reason, was victorious. "I shall help you in any way I can, Mademoiselle," he murmured in a low, soothing voice.

Eponine turned her tearstained face up to the soggy law student. "Oh would you, Monsieur?"

"I'd lay down my life for you," Laigle said gravely, before tripping and falling through the Wormhole of Out-of-Character Behavior Spawned From the Black Hole of Out-of-Character Behavior.

Eponine's face was radiant, with a luster that put gold to shame.

"Ah! My eyes!" cried Combeferre, when he accidentally gazed upon the copy-right infringement of _Camelot _and Eponine's shining face. He blinked furiously, stumbled around unseeingly, and tripped over Joly.

"Ah! My kidneys!" wailed Joly disconsolately.

Eponine regarded Joly and Combeferre sadly. "Oh goodness, I _must _be at fault for that. My life is pain!"

"Would you like me to prescribe some morphine for you?" Joly inquired weakly.

Laigle ignored his fallen comrade. "How may I help you, dearest Mademoiselle?"

"I must find the best legal mind in Paris," Eponine informed him gratefully, forgetting about the students moaning in pain several feet away, much as a young girl forgets a childhood antagonist who used one as a slave by hiding those events in the hallowed caverns of repressed memory.

"Well I would say that that was me," Laigle thought aloud. "But I haven't passed the bar yet." As several people rushed to Joly and Combeferre and began asking them if they were all right, Laigle snapped his fingers. "Got it! I'll take you to Courfeyrac. He has the required library and everything! It'll be brilliant! Can't you see your success in Paris's legal system now?"

"_I_ can't see," Combeferre remarked pitifully.

"Fetch Inspector Javert!" cried one gentleman peering at Combeferre. "These fellows are badly hurt! _And _they've disturbed the peace!"

"You're crushing my spleen, Combeferre," Joly protested faintly.

Eponine turned her attention away from the injured revolutionaries to the bald law student before her. He was really rather handsome, with a charming smile and very nice eyes, though he had nothing on her beloved Monsieur Marius. Thankful tears gathered in Eponine's own eyes. "Oh monsieur, I don't know how to thank you!"

"One look into your eyes is worth all the thanks in the world," Laigle said grandly, causing Combeferre to wail, "Oh what a terrible cliché! It hurts my soul!"

"His soul's hurting, fetch a priest!" insisted one young lady, hitting her beau with her parasol. "Stop looking at that girl, Gerald!"

Eponine smiled. "Those students will be fine. I know, for I can see into the future."

"I told you to stop ogling that girl, Gerald! It's not polite!" There was a large 'thwack'. Eponine turned to look at the group of people, placing a delicate hand over her rosebud mouth.

"I'm only courting you for your money, Lulu," Gerald growled, rubbing his head through a broken top hat.

"Obviously!" Lulu screeched. "And you won't see a _centime_ if you stare at that harlot like that!"

"Marry me, Mademoiselle!" yelled Gerald, diving at Eponine's feet.

Eponine sighed and swept off on the wet arm of Laigle the law student, still feeling terribly distressed.


	10. Chapter 10

"Courfeyrac!" called the sodden law student, pounding on a door. "Courfeyrac, I need to talk to you!"

"I'm _sleeping_," Courfeyrac shouted back, through the door.

"I'm very distressed," Eponine called, her soft, alluring voice, lulling Courfeyrac into a bad characterization.

"I'm awake!" Courfeyrac revised, swinging the door open.

Courfeyrac, Eponine observed, was almost as handsome as Marius. His dark, rather long, hair was tousled and falling out of its hair ribbon, and he appeared in his rumpled shirtsleeves and breeches.

With the suavest of smiles, Courfeyrac bowed and inquired, "What on earth could distress a creature of such beauty as yourself?"

"Unrequited love!" Eponine exclaimed, before bursting into tears.

"Any man who didn't fall in love with you at first sight is either blind or Enjolras," Laigle murmured, patting Eponine kindly on the arm.

Eponine's eyes widened. "Oh, you are too kind! I'm sure I'm not as pretty as that!" For Eponine was very modest, as well.

Courfeyrac sighed and pressed a hand to his heart. "Oh what heavenly modesty! Do come in, fair lady."

Eponine swept into the apartment and smiled sadly at Courfeyrac. "I am in grave need of your help, Monsieur, but I have no money."

"I won't hear of you paying me," Courfeyrac proclaimed grandly, sweeping a pile of trashy novels off a chair. "As you many not have been aware, law students such as me and Marius have all the time in the world to help the underprivileged. Why, we don't need to go to classes, pass the bar exam and/ or study for it, go through the torturously slow French legal system, or anything unglamorous of the sort! Watch an episode of Law and Order and you're set!"

"How anachronistic of you," Laigle replied, with his usual subtle sarcasm. "But I must congratulate you on your sudden ability to time travel. Such an amusing pastime will help you immeasurably in history class."

Courfeyrac eyed Laigle warily. "You're acting awfully in character, Bousset. Perhaps you don't love the Beautifully Tragic and Tragically Beautiful woman in front of you as much as you have led me to believe."

"Considering the only words I uttered to her was idle flattery, I can't see why…." Laigle trailed off and gasped. "Why, I _am_ acting in character, a little!" He flung himself at the feet of Princess Eponine. "Forgive me, my dearest love!"

"How can I help your case of unrequited love, oh Fair Flower of the Moon?" Courfeyrac asked, thus demonstrating that there is many a student who cannot write or think of poetry, even if he were dying dramatically on a barricade.

"You must destroy the reputation of the Other Woman!" declared Eponine, voice ringing from the revealed plot point.

Courfeyrac looked at her dubiously. "Look, even _I_ have my limits. I can't besmirch the reputation of an innocent young woman just because-"

Eponine looked up at him soulfully, placing a well-manicured hand on Courfeyrac's chest. "What limits?"

Courfeyrac blinked dazedly. "None whatsoever! First you'll need sordid details about the girl's past life. It'd help if her mother was a streetwalker, or unmarried, or in trouble with the law, or if her father was an escaped convict."

"All of the above," crowed Eponine, as triumphantly as an elderly grandfather on the day of his grandson's wedding to a pretty young girl with a large, recently discovered fortune.

Laigle pulled a crumpled piece of paper, a half-empty ink bottle, and a broken quill pen out from underneath Courfeyrac's bed. "Tell us the whole story," he begged, from his position on the floor.

Eponine launched into a detailed account of Jean Valjean, Fantine, and Cosette's history with all the untamed eloquence of a drunken student befuddled by absinthe and captivated by the golden orator in the center of the room, who found said drunken student the most repugnant individual alive.

"Marvelous!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "But do we have proof?"

They did not. And Eponine was terribly distressed.


	11. Chapter 11

Eponine's astute mind quickly worked out a solution to her problem. "I shall have to get proof by finding it in the Lark's house. And for that I'll need-"

"Patron Minette?" Montparnasse asked hopefully, sticking his head through Courfeyrac's window.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my room?" Courfeyrac inquired.

"I'm stealing your money," Montparnasse replied frankly, pulling Courfeyrac's moneybag out from under his pillow.

"No, I shall need Joly," Eponine declared, ignoring Montparnasee and Courfeyrac, "the medical student that saved the Lark's life."

"I shall need my money!" Courfeyrac added, lunging at Montparnasse.

"I shall need my knife!" cried Montparnasse, struggling with Courfeyrac.

"I shall need medical attention!" exclaimed Laigle, as the law student and the thief began to fight on top of his back.

Eponine ignored them all, for Marius was of Paramount Importance and she was concocting a Brilliant Plan to Ruin the Lark's Happiness and Use Far Too Much Capitalization. Eponine was still kind and compassionate, though, so she punched Montparnasse in the jaw and threw him out the window, in order to save her lawyers.

"I AM IN A CAPS LOCK OF RAGE!" Montparnasse yelled, as he hurtled to the ground.

"Let me escort you back to your apartment," Eponine murmured soothingly to Laigle, ignoring Montparnasse's CAPS LOCK OF RAGE and the subsequent 'splat' when Montparnasse hit the ground. "As I am omniscient, I know your roommate is the medical student I am looking for, and will help you with your injuries."

One trip through a plot hole later, Laigle and Eponine arrived at Joly's apartment.

Eponine, single-handly supporting Laigle, as Eponine, during her trip through the plot hole, had magically bonded with Superwoman and gained Super Strength, knocked on the door and called, alluringly, "Please, someone! I need help!"

The door opened to reveal a young woman with the eyes of a fortune teller and a worried expression. "Who are you?"

"She's my One True Love!" exclaimed Laigle. "I nearly killed Joly in defending her from his advances!"

The young woman narrowed her dark eyes and slapped Laigle with one small hand. "You know I hate it when you come home with wine addling your wits, Bousset! You sodden reprobate! Follower of Bacchus!"

"You wound me to the core, Musichetta," Laigle replied humbly. "Alas for classical allusion! Must you shame me in front of this vision of lovliness?"

Musichetta leaned against the door and glared at him. "When you come home like that and tell me you attacked my boyfriend, yes!"

"I need your boyfriend!" Eponine declared grandly.

Musichetta crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Sorry, Mademoiselle, but the drunken sod collapsed over your shoulders apparently put him in the hospital."

"Oh!" cried Eponine, in alarm. "Was he that medical student in the Jardin du Luxembourg? He looked seriously injured."

Musichetta staggered backwards and turned pale. "He… what?" Fury returning, Musichetta accidentally broke her hoop skirt (thus showing how elegant Eponine was- Eponine would _never_ break a hoop skirt) and slapped Laigle again. "You… you… you…!"

"Yes, it's me," Laigle replied dizzily. "The room in spinning and, surprisingly, not because of my love for the Tragically Beautiful woman supporting me!"

Musichetta disappeared back into the apartment and reappeared clutching a cloak, hat, and reticule. "Die, you dolt of a lawyer! You put Joly in the hospital! And this time, there's actually something wrong with him! My poor love!" Tripping over the doorstep, and tearing out the hem of her dress, Musichetta stumbled down the stairs.

"Should we go to the hospital?" asked Laigle.

"Yes!" replied Eponine. "We must find Joly!" And so Eponine trekked through the streets of Paris with an injured law student slung over her shoulders, much like an aboveground version of an escaped convict attempting to rescue the true love of his adopted daughter.

As Eponine no longer 'knew her way around' (true characterizations are far too sophisticated for a parody), they followed Musichetta.

As Musichetta had hired a hansom, this proved rather difficult.

But they did eventually arrive at the hospital and burst through the doors.

"My poor Joly!" cried Musichetta, tripping over her skirt, but managing to get to her beloved's bedside regardless. "In the hospital again, and this time you're really hurt!"

"It's terrible," Joly replied feebily, coughing into a handkerchief and attempting to sit up. "Not only do I have tuberculosis, but I've gone blind in my right eye, my kidneys have been punctured, my spleen has been crushed, I fractured my left leg and my right wrist, I've got a terribly bruise on my right side, the ligament in my knee has been strained, my tongue is spotty, and I think I'm coming down with gangrene from the cut on my forehead."

"My poor Cyclops," Musichetta murmured, smoothing back Joly's hair to view the bandages around his forehead. "Your eye is swollen shut."

"And I was doing so well!" Joly continued miserably. "I thought I was going to live 'til Tuesday!"

Eponine cleared her throat. "Excuse me, but I am in need of assistance." All the doctors in the ward dropped what they were doing and rushed to her.

"Ah, my other eye!" cried Joly, in severe pain. "There's a glass splinter in it from a fallen beaker, Musichetta. I'm blind!"

And so, Eponine was terribly distressed.


	12. Chapter 12

"That voice seems oddly familiar," commented Combeferre, squinting from his bed. "I wish I could see who it was."

"I wish I hadn't gone blind!" wailed Joly, clutching at his eye. "Musichetta, help me!"

Musichetta attacked a doctor and dragged him to her beau's bedside. "Monsieur Joly needs medical attention!"

The doctor shook her off. "There is a Tragically Beautiful woman that needs my help instead! Watch how I completely violate my Hippocratic Oath and intentionally cause a patient harm!" With that, he leaped over Joly, deliberately stepped on the medical student's forehead, and prostrated himself at the feet of Eponine.

"Ow!" Joly managed to say, before passing out from his concussion. The doctor had been rather heavy.

"Joly!" Musichetta wailed. "Why have you and Bousset suddenly switched luck?"

"Something has altered in the fabric of the space-time continuum," Combeferre mused. "If only I could see what it was!"

Eponine calmly deposited Laigle in the arms of an adoring doctor, and swept regally over to Joly. "Move aside, Mademoiselle Musichetta," Eponine proclaimed grandly. "I am a natural healer, and shall restore Joly to his former health."

Musichetta rolled her eyes in a rather anachronistic gesture. "Best make it better, oh heir of Hippocrates. He thinks he's come down with tuberculosis."

"All right," Eponine agreed pleasantly. She kissed Joly on the forehead, and in a burst of confetti, glitter, and fluffy white kittens, Joly was healed and restored to consciousness. Eponine, however, fainted gracefully into the waiting arms of handsome doctor. Healing was a drain on the petite and willowy Eponine, though she did have the inner strength of an escaped convict trying to rescue the daughter of an unfortunate prostitute.

Joly immediately began inspecting himself and, panicked, declared, "There's absolutely nothing wrong with me, Musichetta! I must have some horrible disease no one's previously discovered!"

Musichetta hit her forehead with her gloved palm. "As if things couldn't get more improbable! I half expect Pan to come piping through the ward, accompanied by Apollo on the lyre. At least Joly's normal as he can get."

"Hello? What's going on?" asked Combeferre, as everyone continued to ignore him.

"Why am I in the hospital?" Bousset asked, puzzled. "The last thing I remember is falling into a fountain. Did I drown, again?"

"Almost drown," Combeferre corrected. "It would be supremely helpful if someone found me another pair of glasses, or bothered telling me what all the colored blobs moving around me are doing."

Eponine awoke, with a slight moan falling from her pink, plump, perfectly shaped rosebud lips. The Amis, save Combeferre, who was still begging vainly for someone to tell him what was going on, immediately remembered what they were doing in the hospital.

"Eponine, my love!" cried Laigle.

"Your name is Eponine! What a beautiful name for my true love!" exclaimed Joly, clutching his hands to his chest.

"Hey, I'm your mistress," Musichetta snapped, poking Joly in the arm.

"When is your grand dinner party with Cosette Frauchelevaunt?" Eponine inquired of Joly.

Musichetta narrowed her dark eyes. "Joly, who is Cosette Frauchelevaunt and why is this Eponine your true love?"

"Tomorrow night," Joly replied raptly. "Cosette is the Evil Other Woman Who is Out to Steal Eponine's Happiness."

"Everyone must be drunk," Musichetta declared, holding her head in her hands. "Or at least _I_ must be."

"Eponine is my true love!" Laigle cried, jumping out of his bed, and lunging at Joly. Joly continued to stare raptly at Eponine.

"No, she's mine!" cried the handsome doctor that had caught Eponine earlier.

"No, mine!" cried another doctor. They engaged in a fistfight.

"What's going on?" Combeferre asked plaintively.

Musichetta rolled her eyes again, irritation with Eponine causing another anachronistic gesture. "_Everyone_ and their brother are in love with this girl, Eponine, including my boyfriend. The doctors and Laigle have gotten into a fistfight. Eponine is planning on exacting revenge on some girl named Cosette tomorrow night, and- this is just a wild guess, mind you- Eponine will find someone _worthy _of her spectacular beauty and find happiness, and become engaged for _true love_, because, of course, marriage is the first thing students have on their mind when they see a pretty girl, and-"

"Stop the foreshadowing!" cried Eponine. "Foreshadowing is a highly useful literary devise, but too sophisticated for a parody!"

"What words of wisdom!" Joly exclaimed, staring at Eponine happily. "I shall engrave them on my arm, because you said them!"

"I think Joly is actually ill for once," Musichetta remarked at random.

"I've never been better, having met my One True Love!" Joly informed the ward at large, before prostrating himself at Eponine's feet.

"_I'm_ your One True Love," Musichetta reminded him, crossing her arms sulkily. "This is absurd, Joly. Doesn't she already have a One True Love? She's bound to-"

"Stop the foreshadowing!" commanded Eponine. "Now, with my amazing time warping abilities, I shall travel forward in time to tomorrow night!"

So she did. However, Eponine remained distressed, because she left a very nice bonnet back in the hospital ward, and she thought that one of her pet lice, Marius Jr., had been hiding in it.


	13. Chapter 13

Eponine snuck into the garden in Rue Plumet (having super strength, she pulled the wrought iron gate out of the ground to let herself in) and spied through the window of her Evil Arch Enemy. Cosette and Marius were sitting next to each other by the window, looking at their hands. Valjean was seated on the other side of the room with Joly, who was talking animatedly about how he was in love with a wonderful girl named Musichetta, who he would marry if he wasn't going to die on Tuesday.

"So… you… live with your father?" Marius asked.

"Yes," Cosette replied, looking rather lost.

"Oh, that's nice," Marius remarked.

Neither could think of anything to add to their enlightening conversation, and they fell silent. Thanks to her amazing abilities to warp the time-space continuum, Eponine turned herself, momentarily, into tumbleweed, and rolled past the window.

"Do you live with your parents?" Cosette ventured timidly, twisting her hands together.

"No. I used to live with my grandfather, but our political standpoints clashed and I moved out." Marius looked at his boots and covertly attempted to polish them on the rug.

"Oh," Cosette replied. "That's quite sad."

They were silent once more. Eponine felt triumphant.

"I haven't met your mother yet; is your father a widower?" Marius asked, shyly.

Cosette nodded. "Yes. He doesn't talk to me much about my mother. I suppose the thought of her pains him. She died when I was very young."

Marius looked up. "My mother died when I was young, too."

"Oh, there's a similarity," Cosette remarked, relieved. "Do you like poetry?" Blushingly and rather shyly, she continued, "I like Louise Labé. We weren't allowed to read her when I was at the convent, but I found a book of her poetry when we moved here. It's so different from what we read at school!"

"I love poetry!" Marius exclaimed. "Have you read any of the Roman poets? There are some marvelous translations of them. I've translated several of Sappho's poems, myself."

"I don't know much about her," Cosette admitted, looking ashamed. "One of the elder girls at the convent snuck in one of her poems once, and the nuns made us fast for a week, so she must be rather secular."

Marius thought a moment. "Have you read Dante, then? I can't imagine nuns objecting to his work all that much."

Cosette smiled, much relieved. "We did! The Mother-Superior had us determine what circle of he- um… the bad place, we'd be on, and if we answered correctly she let us move up to Purgatory." She paused, and then laughed softly. "I think the nuns crossed out some of the worst parts. Papa bought me a copy of _The Inferno _last week and there were all sorts of terrible things in it that I hadn't read before. When I told Papa though, the book vanished."

Eponine ventured a glance at her One True Love, who smiled at Cosette with amusement and genuine affection. Eponine gasped. How dare that evil girl Cosette steal Marius away from under her very nose!

Eponine snuck to the front of the house (using her super strength to pull the wrought iron gate out of the ground, again) and knocked on the door. With her highly sensitive ears, she could hear everything that could be said in the house.

"Oh! Who could that be?" That was The Evil One, herself! "We're not expecting anyone else, P'pa."

"I'll get the door," 'P'pa' replied, standing.

"Oh, wait!" That was Joly. "Let me put my earplugs in first and close my eyes. Musichetta said, according to her aunt, who's a fortune teller, if a front door should open, I was to stick my fingers in my ears, close my eyes and hum very loudly. I can't hum since I believe I have strep throat and that would only aggravate my strained vocal chords, so I brought wax earplugs. I only hope they don't worsen my ear infection."

After a moment, the door opened, and a mild-mannered man with white hair opened the door. "May I…." He trailed off, captivated by Eponine's beauty.

"Hello," cooed Eponine. "My name is Eponine."

Valjean was smitten by the goddess smiling at him and declared as much.

This caused Eponine a great deal of anguish, once more prompting the oft-repeated phrase, Eponine was terribly distressed.


	14. Chapter 14

As it has been established that Eponine was terribly distressed, we will not repeat said tragic fact again, but will remind our gentle readers that Eponine was, indeed, distressed.

"Oh, sir!" Eponine cried, warding off the amorous advances of the old man. "I am not worthy! Besides, I already have a True Love!"

Valjean paused, trembling with suppressed feeling and inward rebellion against his stupid dialogue. However, clever and witty dialogue is far too sophisticated for a parody, and Valjean continued to tremble from inward rebellion against said dialogue. "Alas, fair lady. My heart is yours and always has been. Ever since I first saw you I know that I would love you all my days. Never again shall I be happy."

Valjean began to weep piteously, clinging to the cream-colored lace decorating Eponine's empire- waist gown. Actual research, coupled with correct information and description, is far too sophisticated for a parody, which is why we now say that Paris is the capital of Berlin, 'Les Miserables' takes place during the French Revolution of 1789, Grantaire only needs Twu Wuv to stop drinking, the only important parts of 'Les Miserables' are where that dreamboat Enjolras appears, and Eponine is in an Regency Era gown.

"No, I suppose not," Eponine replied pleasantly.

"I SHALL NOW GO INTO A BIPOLAR CAPS LOCK OF RAGE!" shouted Valjean, shaking Eponine with all the fury of spurned love, a fury comparable to the anger felt by a grandson who has shouted, "Down with the Bourbons" only to later realize that Bourbon dynasty had already died out. What would he have to revenge himself on, then? Alas! Mourn for his lack of research, dear readers, as much as you mourn the time you wasted reading This Drivel That Pretends to Be a Parody.

"Oh let me go!" Eponine cried piteously.

"YOUR VERY PRESENCE CAUSES PSYCOLOGICAL TRAUMA COMPERABLE TO BEING THE LONE SURVIVOR OF A FAILED INSURECTION, FORCED TO RELIEVE THE TRAUMA THROUGH STILTED POETRY AND PARODIES OF DUBIOUS QUALITY," Valjean said rather calmly, despite the fact that he was still in a very special BIPOLAR CAPS LOCK OF RAGE. "I AM AFRAID I CANNOT LET YOU GO, AS I AM IN A CAPS LOCK OF RAGE AND NO LONGER HAVE CONTROL OVER MY OWN ACTIONS."

"I SHALL GO INTO A CAPS LOCK OF RAGE, THEN!" Eponine roared, tears sparkling in her eyes, so that they resembled the cerulean blue of the sky in a small sea- side town just before it fell prey to the Industrial Revolution and was turned into a murky grayish color by air pollution. "BUT I AM STILL GOOD AND KIND AT HEART. PITY ME, READER, FOR WHAT THIS EVIL MAN MAKES ME DO!"

Marius, in the other room, gasped. Eponine could see this, as she, of course, had x- ray vision. It is silly to think she didn't.

Marius clutched at his head. "I feel… so odd… as if I was being torn from my body… I'm not… that's not… urgh… ah!" He fell to the ground a moment, and when he got up, his large brown eyes were wide, and he smiled dreamily, hearing Eponine's blood-curdling CAPS LOCK OF RAGE. "It is the Melodious Voice of My One True Love to Whom I Shall Be Forever Faithful!"

Cosette stared at him in acute stupefaction. "Wait here, Marius."

"But my One True Love Awaits!" Marius wailed. Cosette scurried out of the room. Joly sat in the corner, flipping through a magic, anachronistic copy of _Newsweek_, attempting to stay in character

"P'pa… is everything all right?" Cosette asked worriedly, tapping Valjean on the shoulder. "It appears that I'm the only one using the correct amount of capitalization."

"IT'S THE LARK!" Eponine cried. She pulled the Lark voodoo doll out from a conveniently placed plot-hole. "Suffer, thou vilest wretch!"

"Why?" Cosette asked, puzzled. "Have I done something wrong?"

"You have existed!" Eponine declared dramatically, shoving Valjean into the handy plot hole. She twisted the voodoo doll into a series of agonizing poses, much cheered by Cosette's screams.

"And now," Eponine announced, once the Lark had been reduced to a quivering wreck, "vanish, thou manifestation of evil!"

"Oh dear God!" Cosette said before being thrown into a plot-hole. She vanished quickly, like the happiness of an unemployed female factory worker forced to sell her hair.

And, for once, Eponine was not distressed at all.


	15. Chapter 15

Though, assuredly, our fair readers' interests are consumed by the all important tale of Eponine, occasionally even the worse fan-fics will indulge in behavior that, if squinted at by a mild-mannered student who has lost his glasses, can vaguely resemble that of the original author of 'Les Miserables'.

That author, of course, is J.K. Rowling.

Ha, ha! We are just kidding! We know the truth.

The author, of course, is John Steinbeck.

As such, it is now the time for a chapter to connect the events taking place here with the events in the wider world. Thus, we shall observe the behaviors of one police inspector, Javert by name, as he suddenly discovers the plot. At least, he would have, had there been a plot. As you should recall, plots are too sophisticated for parodies.

Inspector Javert was having a horrible day. The Chief Inspector had been driven insane and began screaming that he "could not save Javert from the Mary Sues" as well as "students really can take over Paris".

All the inspectors were baffled by this behavior, most particularly Javert, who had no idea why he was being attacked by "Mary Sues", whatever they were.

He planned on launching a full-scale investigation, but was stopped by the new Chief Inspector.

"I used to beh Inspectour Clouseau," the man informed Javert importantly. "I am nuh your superior and zus, you will come wiz meh to stop Patron- Minette!"

Having only understood one word in ten, Javert frowned. "I'm sorry, sir?"

Clouseau sighed. "Ah Javert. We are alike, you and I." He dramatically flung his arms wide and sent Inspector Deville out the window. "We duhed, but we are still alive."

The only reasonable response to this was "… the hell?" but Javert managed to restrain himself with a calm, "What, sir?"

"After zo many feet of spectacular incompetence, I should buh deed, but, alas! Zey revive me wiz sillier dialogue, much like you."

"My feet are spectacularly incompetent?" Javert asked blankly.

Clouseau sighed and leaned against the stove, thus setting himself, and, afterwards, the entire police station, on fire. "We are, ze boz of oz, trapped in a crossovair!"

"How can you have a French accent when we're speaking in French?" Javert inquired irritably, before noticing that his office had just caught on fire. "My office!"

"Euh," replied Clouseau, with a shrug that caused the stove to fall over. At this point in time, a large plot hole opened in the police station, and a young woman, screaming, landed in Javert's arms.

"Zat was unusual, even buh my zandairds," Clouseau informed them all.

"Are you even speaking French?" Javert demanded, trying to simultaneously quiet the girl in his arms and put out the fire.

At that point in time, another plot hole up, and a messily-attired student emerged. He helped a prettily dressed young woman step out of said plot hole.

"Zis is zanair zen zose ozzer movies Peter Zellers was en," Clouseau exclaimed. "And I zought _Dr. Strangelove_ wuz ze 'eight of insanity."

"Ahhh!" the girl continued to scream.

"This is odd," commented the student, squinting. "Musichetta, do you know what's going on?"

The woman named Musichetta yelped and tore off her cape. She attempted to beat out the flames. "The office is on fire, Combeferre!"

"That's easily resolved," Combeferre said pragmatically. "Shove it into the plot holes."

They did so, and were rather astonished that, when the plot holes vanished, the office was returned to normal. Javert set the young lady in his arms into a chair.

"Now," Javert growled, folding his arms across his chest. "What the hell is going on?"

"My name is Cosette, and I was just brutally tortured!" the young lady cried.

"My name is Combeferre, and I can't see anything," Combeferre stated.

"Muh name iz Clouseau, and I am stook in a crossovair," Clouseau announced.

"My name is Musichetta, my boyfriend's been stolen, I've fallen out of a plot hole, there's some psycho named Eponine running around Paris messing up the fabric of the time- space continuum, and I'm stuck with a half- blind medical student," growled Musichetta, scowling at her burnt cloak.

Javert frowned. "So… that's really it? This 'Eponine' has completely changed our timeline?"

"That's what I've concluded," Combeferre informed the stove, nodding. "I say, you're rather short for an inspector. In any case, this 'Eponine' has somehow caused drastic changes, and those changes have ruined the world as we know it. As such, we must do something to combat these changes."

Cosette dried her eyes on the back of her hand. "I'm sure it isn't her fault! I knew her as a child. And she… all right, she abused me like her mother, but she wasn't _evil_. She didn't hit me as hard as Madame."

"So Mademoiselle Eponine has changed," Javert mused. "Perhaps she has gone mad? And what changes have occurred?"

Musichetta cleared her throat. "Allow me to begin: she stole my boyfriend, she caused a hospital to explode from an excess of unrequited love, she caused two best friends to try and kill each other, she has broken up the engagement of some girl named Cosette, she has defied the laws of Physics, and she has irritated every woman in Paris-"

"She's broken my glasses," Combeferre added piteously.

"My father's in love with her," Cosette murmured dubiously. "And my fiancé is too."

"Ze shear amount of chaos she 'as caused 'as caused meh to instantly fall in ze louver wiz her!" Clouseau exclaimed happily.

Musichetta glared at him. "She's caused him to become incomprehensible, too."

"He already was," Javert replied grimly.

"In short," Musichetta continued on loudly, "she has ruined the normal pattern of love."

Combeferre smiled. "Ah ha! I have plan, then, that, quite possibly would work. All we need to do is-"

"Shh!" Musichetta scolded. "She has super- hearing! Don't let the "fair Eponine" hear how we're going to overthrow her!" She glanced worriedly around the room. "By 'overthrow' I mean… toss roses on her as she walks by."

Miles away, Eponine was terribly distressed. This was indeed a severe case of foreshadowing (far too sophisticated for a parody), and Marius, in the "ecstatic throes of true love" (in actuality, it was the tragic death throes of his character), had thrown himself out of a window and had become rather disappointingly unconscious.


	16. Chapter 16

Eponine was so terribly distressed over Marius's lack of consciousness she was forced to write angsty poetry. Because she was the Clever Heroine Who Has Won the Readers' Hearts, and the author of this Parody of Dubious Quality is no poet, we shall plagiarize (following the law is too sophisticated for a parody).

Eponine wrote this sonnet to express her anger at Marius's lack of love:

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,  
Who for thyself art so unprovident.  
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,  
But that thou none lovest is most evident;  
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate  
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.  
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate  
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.  
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!  
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?  
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,  
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:  
Make thee another self, for love of me,  
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

It is said that these words were so beautiful one Mister William Shakespeare stole this poem to describe the Fair Eponine (who could travel in time and thus met him), because, alas, her heart had been stolen by the Unseeing Marius.

Of course, Marius could not see because he had thrown himself out a window and was unconscious, but that is logic and logic has no place in a parody.

After writing that poem, Eponine felt much better, and managed to awaken Marius with True Love's First Kiss.

It was a magical experience for Eponine. Her blood sang in her veins (it sang _Que Sera_ if you really want specifics), and lighting and fireworks and cannons and atomic bombs exploded in her brain (of course, Eponine was not dead because she had super strength. Alas, though, what remaining brain cells she had disappeared). She felt like she would melt from sheer pleasure, and she reveled in the feel of Marius's peach-soft skin against hers (Marius, unbeknownst to anyone save Ma'am Huchloup, had hired himself out as a product tester to a skin care company so he could pay his rent. He often returned home smelling strangely of lotions he glumly described as 'moonlit midnight path of jasmine and water lilies' and 'vanilla sugar cherry blossom hydrogenising melon').

Marius awoke at once, grinning dazedly. "Ah, Eponine, my love! I have awoken in a heavenly garden, made perfect by your incomparable presence."

"Oh, won't you try to compare me to things, regardless?" Eponine inquired, fluttering her three-inch long eyelashes.

Marius kissed her hand. "For you, anything, my darling." As we have already stated, correct characterizations are far too complicated… er, too _sophisticated_ for a parody, and thus Marius cannot write anything resembling poetry to save his life. Marius took a deep breath and began. "My love for you is as deep as Grantaire's wine bottle. It is purer than Jehan's thoughts, and most certainly Courfeyrac's. You are more beautiful than Patria- Sue, Enjolras's one true love. Your eyes are as green as frogs, as brown as dirt, as blue as an ink stain, and as violet as a bruise. Your lips are as red as a drunkard's nose, and-"

Marius continued to prattle on nonsensically, causing Joly to write in abject pain in the corner of the room (he had unwisely taken out his ear plugs due to worries about his ear infection) and Valjean to smash his head through a wall in order to end his misery.

And once more, Eponine was terribly distressed (Marius's poetry was lamentable, and the atomic explosion in her head has ruined her coiffure).


	17. Chapter 17

The author of this parody would like to take a moment to thank her Gentle Readers for being Ever Vigilant Against Typos, but no, Joly was not _writhing _in agony. He was, indeed, _writing_ in agony.

Joly, having discovered that his love was unrequited, at first was grossly upset. However, when he heard Marius's Lamentable Poetry (it was so lamentable it needed to be capitalized!) he was inspired to write.

So Joly put pen to paper and scribbled out, "Help me! I'm trapped in a world that doesn't make sense, and I don't think it's due to hallucinations brought on by my fever!"

However, the poetry was so Lamentable (it was _so_ Lamentable it needed to be capitalized again!) writing was a task of torture. Even writing something that was grammatically correct caused severe pain.

Joly bravely signed the paper and staggered to the door of the sitting room. He was somewhat shocked to see the head of his host stuck through the wall (and some of the doorpost) next to the door.

"I say," Joly said, startled. "Your head isn't supposed to be there."

"No, I suppose not," Monsieur le Blanc replied dully.

"That space is usually taken up by the wall, isn't it?" Joly inquired politely, but loudly, in order to drown out Marius's poetry.

"Normally, yes."

"My love is like a red, red rose, but, alas, I can't afford a red rose, so I suppose it's like a pink rose," Marius mused loudly. "No, I don't think I can afford that either, so a yellow… no…. Come to think of it, I can't afford any sort of rose, so I suppose my love is like a carnation… no, that's still out of my price range. Um… it's like a violet… oh no, I can't afford that either, so I suppose it's like a… a dandelion. Yes! My love for you is like a dandelion because it… is a weed that won't go away no matter how many times you try to kill it… oh dear. That didn't work."

Marius lapsed into silence.

Joly felt as if he was coming out of a daze, and sneezed violently. "Well!"

"My head hurts," Monsieur Fauchelevent remarked, sounding slightly surprised.

"I shouldn't doubt it," Joly replied, rubbing his nose with the knob of his cane. "You stuck your head through the wall."

"I have?" Monsieur Fauchelevent asked, confused. He attempted to move, before realizing that he was, in fact, stuck in the wall. "It appears I am stuck in the wall."

"Well, _yes_, that's rather apparent," Joly remarked, shaking his head.

"My love is like a penguin," Marius began. The start was not promising, and Joly was quite sure that just listening to the poetry caused brain damage.

"I've written a plea for help. Would you like to sign it?" Joly shouted quickly. He could feel his brain slowly turning into goop, and began coughing. "Forgive me, I'm allergic to stupidity."

"I can't," Monsieur Fauchelevent replied mournfully. "I'm stuck in the wall."

"Oh, of course," Joly yelled, his hands over his ears. "If I stuck a pen in your mouth, do you think that you could sign it, then?" He then allowed himself a brief coughing fit.

Monsieur Fauchelevent's eyes became glassy. "I suppose… as long as it's not a feather pen, or a fountain pen."

"I've found an anachronistic mechanical pencil," Joly offered loudly, daring to take his hands off his ears for a moment. He picked up the pencil.

"Your lips taste like… actually, they taste like cucumber melon cherry with artificial red dye 5 lip gloss, and that's very strange and anachronistic," Marius continued. "I love you terribly."

"You don't love me!" Eponine cried, most distressed. "You won't compare me to things anymore!"

This statement was so stupid Joly began to sneeze violently. "Why, oh why was I born with such a terrible allergy to idiocy!" he wailed.

"You are like a beautiful poem!" Marius exclaimed desperately, "because your skin is very pale, like paper, but your eyelashes are rather dark, like when you write a poem on white paper with black ink."

Thinking quickly, Joly ripped up the copy of _Newsweek_, quickly deducing that the only way to beat all the anachronisms was to use anachronisms, and stuffed some of the pages into his ears. He then stuffed several pages into Monsieur Fauchelevent's ears, and stuck the pencil between Monsieur Fauchelevent's lips.

He held up the paper whilst Monsieur Fauchelevent attempted to write a plea for help. Joly then realized that he couldn't open the door; his host's head was in the way.

"I WILL PROCLAIM MY LOVE FROM THE ROOFTOPS, BUT I'M AFRAID OF HEIGHTS, SO I'LL JUST PROCLAIM IT FROM THIS GARDEN!" Marius shouted, entering into a Caps Lock of Uncontrolled Passion.

Joly knew he had to get out, though. His immune system, he was sure, was failing from the sheer amount of stupidity emanating from the garden, his sinus was dripping, his ear infection was reacting badly to the ink used in _Newsweek_, there was a suspicious rash on his left thumb, his tuberculosis was worsening, his foot had fallen asleep, and he hadn't been able to look at his tongue in three hours, at least. Who knows what could have changed since then?

Monsieur Fauchelevent spit out the pencil. "I'm done!" he shouted.

Joly nodded and turned around the room. There was the window opening to the garden, and the street… Joly grimaced. Glass was very dangerous, but….

"LET'S GET MARRIED!" Marius shouted. "I'LL GO SEE MY GRANDFATHER RIGHT NOW!" A plot hole began to grow next to the window facing the street.

Joly frowned, then gathered his strength and flung his walking stick at the window. The glass shattered and fell into the plot hole.

The plot hole began to grow, and Joly began to feel slightly panicked. He had never been good at physical activity, and jumping over plot holes as if he was a police inspector trying to leap over the railing of a bridge into the Seine most certainly counted as physical activity.

"I LOVE YOU, MY LOVEMUFFIN!" Marius caterwauled.

Joly tucked the letter into his vest with trembling fingers (a sign of Parkinson's disease? He'd have to look it up when he got home), took and deep breath and jogged to the back of the room.

The plot hole grew ever larger.

"Go with God," Monsieur Fauchelevent urged worriedly.

Joly ran to the edge of the plot hole and leaped over it, out of the window with a wild cry of, "I hope I don't mess up my magnetic alignment by doing this!"

He tumbled onto the pavement with a painful crack, as the house was swallowed by a plot hole.

"Oh God," Joly gasped, clutching at his shirtfront. "I've broken something." He scrambled up and began feeling for broken bones, before realizing he had landed on his walking stick and smashed it.

Now it was Joly's turn to say he was terribly distressed, because he had been very fond of his walking stick, and he couldn't mourn for it properly because he was busy running into the Latin Quarter, away from the ever-growing plot holes. Eponine, of course, was more distressed, because _no one_ could out-distress Eponine when she hadn't gotten in her daily quota of angst.


	18. Chapter 18

Joly very quickly decided that he didn't like running, jogging, walking, or any physical activity other than dissecting things in his medical classes. He collapsed onto his side in the middle of the street and miraculously was not run over by a horse, a carriage, or the usual angry mob that characterizes a great deal of French literature and literature about France.

Two pairs of shoes and trousers halted in his direct line of vision, and then Jehan's smiling face appeared.

"Hello!" Jehan said brightly, pulling the pages of _Newsweek_ out of Joly's left ear. "It's so nice to get a new perspective on things from time to time, isn't it?"

The owner of the other pair of shoes cleared his throat. "I don't think that's what he's doing, Jehan."

Jehan, stuck in a Palpable Air of Innocence, looked confused. "You think so, Feuilly? What are you doing then, Jollly?" He began to look a bit concerned. "Are you alright?"

Joly attempted to regain his breath. He decided it wasn't worth it, since breath was highly overrated, and continued to gasp like a stunned fish that justbeen hit bya suicidal police inspector.

Feuilly nudged Joly in the shoulder with the toe of one clunky work- boot. "Hallo? You alright, Jolly?"

"I'm dying," Joly announced dramatically.

"Everything's normal, then," Feuilly announced, stepping over Joly. "Let's go."

"Oh, alright!" Jehan chirped. "Stay jolly, Jollly! We're going to a lovely field of flowers I found. Feuilly wanted to get some to use as models for painting his fans and my violets looked lonely this morning, so I'm going to go get them company. Oh… what's that?"

Joly looked up. For no apparent reason, and with complete disregard for geography, the law of physics, or Victor Hugo's intentions, a house had uprooted itself and was hovering benignly in the middle of the street.

"This is so stupid I'm sure I'm going to die of an allergic reaction," Joly whispered, scrambling up and skinning one of his knees. He grabbed Jehan and Feuilly by their cravats and dragged them into a Handy and Improbably Placed Alley so Improbable it just had to be capitalized. Joly stood up against the wall of the alley, and drew his friends out of the house's line of sight.

"Look," Joly hissed. "I don't know what's going on, but something very bad is happening. Whatever you do, avoid a woman named Eponine-"

"Why?" Jehan interrupted, naively perplexed. He turned to look to Joly. "It's such a pretty name!"

"Not everything pretty is good," Feuilly, looking suddenly animated, informed him. "Take for instance, Moscow. Before it burned to stay out of Bonaparte's clutches, it was dazzling! Yet it hid such evil! How can any self- respecting country take sovereignty from another and still retain beauty? Poor Poland, it-"

At that moment a light, clear, sparkling bell- like laugh that rang out in the Parisian air like the wedding bells for a wedding that most certainly never took place for Fantine, interrupted the thread of the conversation. Joly took out the remaining pages of _Newsweek_ out of his right ear, tore them in half, and stuffed them in his ears.

"Don't listen to her, whatever you do!" he cried. However, if his friends had been listening to him they would have followed good, sound advice. Such behavior is far too sophisticated for a parody. Gentle reader, you shouldn't have even thought of it.

"Oh Marius, I'm so happy!" Eponine trilled putting to shame the sweet melancholic trilling of the lark that must rise before dawn, fetch water from distant streams, and generally be abused for the amusement of her foster family. By yet another improbable twist of fate, Eponine stopped in front of their alley. "I'm so happy I shall sing a pretty song about how miserable it is to be alone!" Eponine began to sing 'On My Own' yet again.

"LA LA LA LA LA LA LA," Joly sang loudly, entering into a Caps Lock of Desperation. "YOU'RE KILLING THE POIGANCY OF THE SONG! LA LA LA LA, SAVE YOURSELVES!" He tried to grab Jehan's sleeve and drag him away but Jehan shook him off.

There was a curiously dazed look on Jehan's face. "Never have I heard something of such beauty," he murmured. "I shall love her until I die, just for herglorious song."

Joly grabbed him around the shoulders and tried to drag him away again, but Jehan's real personality underwent a Drastic Rewrite and he punched Joly in the face. Joly stumbled back and barreled into Feuilly.

"Run for it!" Joly advised, rubbing his bruised cheek. "Save yourself, since she's already gotten Prouvaire!"

Unfortunately, Feuilly had already heard the Magical Intonation of the Blessed Eppie- Sue and fallen for her with all the burning obsession common to young Parisians. Lovesickness commonly manifests itself in staring and stalking, obsessing over mysterious handkerchiefs with even more mysterious initials, and feeling sporadic bursts of homicidal fury at innocent bystanders.

Even more unfortunately, Joly had drowned out part of Eponine's song and interrupted Feuilly's stalking and staring time, and poor Feuilly didn't have a mysterious handkerchief with even more mysterious initials to obsess over.

"I'll kill you!" Feuilly howled. "You have interrupted my stalking and staring time, horrid man! I KILL YOU, STUPID MAN!"

Joly screamed and ran out of the alley, knocking over Marius in the process, and continued running and screaming until he reached the Café Musain and had collapsed onto the floor of the backroom.

Someone stepped on his back.

"Ow," Joly said feebly.

"Sorry there," Bahorel boomed. "Didn't see you there Jollly. How's Mam'zelle, by the way?"

"She moved in with me," Joly replied, still feebly. "You're crushing my lungs, Bahorel."

"Oh." Bahorel stepped over Joly then pulled him up by the shoulder. "Why were you on the floor? Still dying, I suppose?"

"Yes," Joly replied, feeling much better now that he could breathe. He suddenly thought of something very terrible and seized Bahorel by the shoulders. "Quick, what do think of tragedies?"

"To hell with them!" Bahorel replied, looking slightly surprised. "I hate them with a passion; you should know. I told you about it yesterday."

Joly nodded cautiously. "Fine. Who do you love?"

Bahorel frowned. "Certainly not my mistress. She smiles and laughs too much. I feel compelled to cheat on her so she won't look so cheery all the time, and-"

"Have you ever heard of someone named Eponine?" Joly interrupted desperately.

"No," Bahorel replied, looking bewildered.

"Thank God," Joly replied, throwing his arms around his neck in a very Courfeyrac-ish manner.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?" Bahorel asked, shoving Joly off. "That random display of inappropriate affection made me feel severely uncomfortable. You actually ill?"

Joly shook his head. "No. Well… this might take some time. We'd better end now and use the convenient chapter break to discuss the situation."

"What situation?" asked Bahorel, who was usually out of the loop since, alas, he didn't make it into the musical.

And thus Eponine was terribly distressed, because the past two chapters have focused on Joly, as will the next chapter, and the poor darling, alas, was beginning to feel awfully neglected.


	19. Chapter 19

"That was one hell of a long description, Joly," Bahorel boomed.

"Seems like it took months," Joly agreed, with a sneeze. "Oh excuse me. Influenza. Possibly deadly. If I checked my tongue I'm sure that I'd know, but as it is-"

At that moment, Enjolras saw fit to make a Dramatic Appearance.

He took one look at the room, looked down at the illegal newspaper he had just gotten published, and then looked back up. He was obviously Not Amused.

"Hello Enjolras!" Joly said brightly, and somewhat desperately. "It looks like your arms are full of illegal newspapers!"

"They are," Enjolras replied coldly.

"Damn shame there isn't anyone to pass them out," Bahorel said. "You know, no new fellows we've pulled off the street- or rather, Courfeyrac's pulled off the street- and no members of other secret societies either. Come to think of it, none of the established members who always come to meetings are here either."

"Except for us," Joly added, equally brightly. "See? Not even the sudden onset of my malaria could keep me from seditious activities."

"Still," Bahorel rumbled, like the many footfalls of a group of National Guardsmen getting the hell away from the insane lawyer holding an open flame near a keg of powder in an enclosed barricade, "three people aren't a lot."

Enjolras favored Bahorel with a calm, cool glare. "I did fulfill my math requirements, Bahorel. I am well aware that 'three' is not a large number."

"As long as that's been established, I have no complaints," Bahorel replied.

"That seems dreadfully out of character," Joly exclaimed, with worry. "Quick, Bahorel, what do you think of the pope?"

"… He shouldn't fell it necessary to tell us we're allowed to eat eggs during Lent?"

Joly whirled around to Enjolras. "Just to make sure it hasn't spread- Enjolras, who is your mistress?"

"… Patria. Are you feeling quite well?"

"Oh, no, I never feel well. You see, that's how you know it's me!"

Enjolras and Bahorel shared a Significant Look though, since Enjolras was one of the participants, it Lacked Romance Entirely though there could possibly have been a Slashy Subtext, if the Pairing Had Not Been So Disturbing It Required Far Too Much Capitalization.

"What concerns outweigh a possible republic?" Enjolras asked, in attempt to return to the Dubious Plot of the Story.

Joly took the _Newsweek_ out of his ears. "Apparently not historical accuracy. I mean, not even _I'm_ allergic to research. How hard is it to look up what type of government in the 1830s?"

"For handy reference, it is _something_ of a constitutional monarchy," Enjolras said dryly, "if one can ignore the fact that our civil liberties are severely reduced by said constitution. The Revolution of 1830 failed us- we, the students, the middle class, the workers-"

"My parents were peasants," Bahorel said helpfully, because it had been canonically established that Enjolras was a wealthy only son and it was assumed that since Joly could canonically keep both a mistress and his best friend in comfort, he was, most likely, a wealthy elder, or only, son as well. "Therefore, I've probably suffered worse than any of you, and I'm damn angry about it!"

"You're always angry, though," Joly interposed mildly.

Enjolras frowned. "_As I was saying_, those who worked for the revolution were betrayed by a cadre of the upper class who commandeered our revolution and set up a government that no one wanted but themselves. We have no freedom of assembly, very few people have the right to vote, the press is severely censored and we have a king that no one wants. We spilled our blood for nothing. We are right back where we were under the Restoration."

Helpfully, Joly added, "For those readers who failed their European history courses, the Restoration was a period of fifteen years following the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo."

"Duh," said Bahorel rather anachronistically. "What are you going to tell them next? That Napoleon seized power after the Directory period, where five men basically ruled all of France, which came after the Reign of Terror, where the Committee of Public Safety ruled France, which came after the early years of the Revolution, where the National Assembly ruled France, which came after the vague constitutional monarchy of 1789 to 1792, which came after years and years of absolute monarchy?"

Enjolras looked down at his newspapers. "That was remarkably enlightening Bahorel. I am surprised that you are capable of such eloquence."

Of course, so should you be, Gentle Reader. Historical Accuracy has no place in a Parody of Increasingly Dubious Quality.

"I could have made it in '92," Bahorel said proudly. "I could have convinced those Parisians to storm the Bastille- Camille Desmoullins, move aside!"

"Er- Enjolras," Joly said carefully, "I… er, we do have something of a problem, people- wise?"

"Namely they're all gone," Bahorel added helpfully.

"Once again, you have astonished me with an incredibly observant response," Enjolras said dryly.

Joly glanced around to make sure there were no devastatingly beautiful gamines lurking under the furnature. "Well, we know where they are, Enjolras- they're all under the spell of one Eponine- Suzette."

Enjolras did not appear to be moved. "Because one girl smiled at them, all of my lieutenants are incapable of action?"

"Yes!" Joly exclaimed. "We have to rescue them, even if I die of consumption on the way there. Or cholera. Cholera's a terrible problem."

"I feel the need to don a red vest," Enjolras said suddenly.

"That's the spirit!" Bahorel shouted. "I'll grab some tricolor sashes and we can tear up some paving stones and have a damn good time. Hang on, what's that?" Bahorel pointed to a large, expanding plot hole gradually taking over the room.

"Not another plot hole!" Joly exclaimed, wilting. "I just jumped over one!"

Enjolras frowned again. "A what?"

Joly tried to rub his nose with the knob of his cane before remembering that he'd broken his cane two chapters ago. "It takes away certain freedoms, Enjolras."

"… So, it's monarchist?" Bahorel asked. "To hell with it then!" Without further ado, Bahorel picked up a table and threw it at the plot hole. Joly contributed to Bahorel's efforts by throwing the contents of his pockets at said plot hole.

Because the author of this Parody of Increasingly Dubious Quality feels that her gentle readers greatly desire to know what Joly was carrying in his pockets, here is a handy list: a small hand mirror, a handkerchief, an anachronistic thermometer, a rubber chicken, a letter, the letter A made out of wood, a tulip, several magnets, a bottle of leeches, laudanum, one of Musichetta's hair ribbons, one of Bousset's hair ribbons (which only proves that the author was too intimidated by the Brick to actually read it), a bottle of brandy, and a red flag. Enjolras dropped his armful of newspapers down the plot hole and grabbed the flag.

"I think," Enjolras said, blue eyes alight with the Fire of Fanaticism, "I shall be using this."

And so it was, that, in a nearby police station, a letter floated down from the ceiling into the small, dimpled hands of Musichetta. She scanned the letter and paled.

"We have to move _now_," she insisted, grabbing Combeferre by the wrist and walking out the door.

"Where to- ow!" Combeferre said, as he ran into the wall. Musichetta, in her haste, had forgotten that Combeferre still did not have his glasses, and allowed him to walk into a wall.

"Stop your whining- we need to _go now_!" The second attempt proved successful, and Musichetta and Combeferre walked out the door.

Cosette looked worried. "Oh, but do you really think that-"

"This _is_ necessary, Mademoiselle," Javert said stiffly, taking his pistols out of a drawer and then taking away Inspector Clouseau's gun. "No firearms for you, sir, until you can decide which language you're speaking."

"But zen I cahn nuh do any funny gags wiz ze firearm!"

"That's probably a good thing," Cosette suggested timidly.

"I ahm very distressed!" Inspector Clouseau announced. "An I zink ze fair Eponine will buh too."

And thus, Eponine was distressed, for it had been expected of her, and dear, fair Eponine never wished to disappoint those who loved her (namely, everyone).


	20. Chapter 20

By and large, Monsieur Gillenormand led a happy life, free from mad fangirls, Mary Sues, Parodies of Dubious Quality, and excesses of capitalization. Aside from an unfortunate incident in the park the other day when everyone went insane and several Wild Young Rebels made of Hell of a Hullabaloo in the Park, he was left on his own to berate his daughter, seduce his cook, and flaunt his royalist opinions in any salon he wished.

However, that was about to change.

Dear Reader, you should have known irritating Crotchety Old Gentlemen with Hearts As Gold As The Hair of Abandoned Mistresses Who Turn to Prostitution to Feed Their Love-Child is a hallmark of humor- and of Parodies of Dubious Quality in particular.

Thus, it was with some alarm that Monsieur Gillenormand opened the door to his house to find another house floating in the street in front of him.

"JACOBIN TERROR TACTICS!" bellowed Monsieur Gillenormand, going into a Caps Lock of Rage in the spirit of any Parody of Dubious Quality. However, he had not yet seen the exquisite, unparalleled beauty of the Helen-of-Troy-like Eppie-Sue and thus slammed the door and demanded someone fetch the gendarmes.

"Tee hee," said Eppie-Sue, picking the lock of Monsieur Gillenormand's front door. "I may engage in dubious actions in order to get my own way, but don't you love me for it?"

"With all my heart!" exclaimed Marius. "With all my soul, and my mind, and my liver, and my spleen-"

"There's a dear!" replied Eponine.

"I'm still stuck in the wall," observed Valjean, from inside the floating house. "The poor wall."

"-and my colon, and my small intestine, and my elbows, and my knee caps," Marius continued on.

"Avast!" cried Jehan, running up the street. "I claim the hand of the Fair Eponine!"

"No, it is mine!" howled Feuilly, and the two got into a knock-down, drag-out fistfight in the middle of the street, underneath the floating house. They then ripped off their overcoats, coats, waistcoats, cravats, and shirts in the noble, noble pursuit of fanservice.

"-and my calves, and my thumbs, and my pinky toes," Marius continued on, quite happily.

"Oh dear!" cried Eponine. "Whatever shall we do?"

Meanwhile, Joly, Bahorel and Enjolras had decided to take a Mighty Plunge for Liberty and had jumped into a plothole in search of the One Who Would Hold the Answers to Their Questions.

"This isn't the Bishop of Digne!" cried Joly, stumbling out of Monsieur Gillenormand's sitting room.

"GAAAAAAAAH!" said Monsieur Gillenormand, now in a Caps Lock of Terror. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?"

"Plothole," said Bahorel.

Enjolras sighed. "This isn't Rousseau, Joly. It isn't even Saint-Just! It's just some old monarchist close to apoplexy."

"I had apoplexy once," Joly said brightly. "It was quite terrible."

Monsieur Gillenormand clutched his chest, quite sure he was having a heart attack.

"Who are you, anyways?" asked Bahorel.

Monsieur Gillenormand drew himself up with Dignity, or, at least as much dignity as anyone could have when stuck in a Parody of Increasingly Dubious Quality. "I am Monsieur Gillenormand! My grandson is Marius Pontmercy and-"

"Oh, you!" said Joly. "I thought I had schizophrenia when I heard the voices in my head, but it just turned out to be back-story. We were sent to find you and bring this all to a Highly Dramatic Conclusion!"

"When did you gain the ability to speak in capital letters?" Enjolras asked. "That seems like a rather aristocratic trait."

"Don't prolong this," Bahorel said, looking out the window. "For God's sake, Jehan and Feuilly get more action than I... do..." He trailed off. "Hm. I think I'd like to revise that thought."

"Too late, it has been typed," said Joly. "But Enjolras! This is the One Who Would Hold the Answers to Our Questions!"

"My God you're unpopular!" Bahorel exclaimed. "It took us nearly a year to find you!"

"Jacobin!" screetched Monsieur Gillenormand, finally regaining control over his tongue. "Robespierrists! Get out of my house! Long live the king!"

"Down with the monarchy," thundered Enjolras, waving his red flag for no apparent reason.

"Aaaah!" screamed Monsieur Gillenormand. "Communists!"

"Oh come now," Enjolars said, as impatient as a police officer with an uncooperative prostitute. "We pre-date Marx and Engels."

Leaving aside political debates, let us move onto the last scion of our improbably large cast of characters.

Musichetta, Combeferre, Cosette, Javert and Inspector Clouseau ran down the street like a bunch of unorganized rebels storming a funeral procession in order to stage a Massive Demonstration because the Government was freaking terrible at controlling cholera outbreaks.

"Ah!" said Cosette. "It's them! It's her!"

"It is!" declared Musichetta, at which point she and Eppie-Sue got into a Catfight in the Name of Fanservice.

"Not the face!" cried Eponine, receiving a slap to the cheek that only brought out a most becoming blush on her ivory pale skin.

Javert fired his pistols into the air. "The choas has ceased to be amusing! Everyone, into that house, now and we will settle these complaints in a reasonable, orderly fashion!"

Because Eponine was quite desperate for her Happy Ending, she took Feuilly and Jehan in hand and pulled them inside. The rest meekly followed her shining example.  
"-and my toenails, and my hair, and my- hey!"

"You too," growled Inspector Javert, taking Marius by the shoulder. "Dolt of a lawyer!"  
Monsieur Gillenormand spluttered himself into an incoherent rage at this invasion of his home by a slew of secondary characters. "You- I- Out! Out! OUT!"

Of course, this was before he saw Eppie-Sue, she of the features so beautiful they defied description. She looked with interest at Monsieur Gillenormand's stately home, his fine collection of _Sèvres _porcelain, the original art hanging on his walls, the luxuriousness of his Louis XV furniture. This was a very comfortable home, filled with every conceivable bourgeois luxury and a Distinct Lack of filth, dirt, lice, or any other vermin but tyrannical opinion.

"Oh Monsieur," said Eponine, her voice as melodious as the people singing the songs of angry men- you know, Gentle Reader, the music of a people who will not be slaves again? Until the next revolution and revocation of anti-slavery legislature? Violent coups d'etat are terrible to the legislative process. "_Do _let us stay?"

Monsieur Gillenormand sadly found himself entirely unable to do otherwise.  
Once they were all seated in the parlor, Javert stood by the fireplace and looked around at each of them. "Alright. Tragically beautiful and beautifully tragic girl in the center of the room, attracting the amorous stares of the multitude- please begin."

"I am distressed!" cried Eponine, her crystalline terms running out of her beauteous, multi-colored eyes. "You see, I am in love with Marius Pontmercy, who Loves Another!"

Everyone turned to look at Cosette, who shrunk into herself and trembled.

"Oh, and he kissed her in public, thus ruining her reputation," Joly piped in. "He ought to marry her in order to keep her from becoming a member of the demi-monde."

"What does the young man have to say about this?" asked Javert.

"And my larynx!" exclaimed Marius. "I don't know of any other body parts."

"Sage words," replied Inspector Javert. "I am much impressed with your cerebral capacities, sir."

"I shouldn't mind marrying him all the same," said Cosette.

"Wait!" said Monsieur Gillenormand. "I have a cunning plan!"

"And copyright infringement," muttered Javert. In a louder voice, he said, "Alright, Monsieur. Have your say. What is it?"

"My idiot grandson will marry the girl he compromised and I shall marry this beauty myself!"

"Eh?" said Javert.

Eponine studied the Brussels lace adoring the table by her. "Alright. I'll settle. Husband!" She flung her arms around Monsieur Gillenormand, which had some strange effect on all the men. None of them had ever expected to feel feelings of complete and total revulsion where fair Eponine was concerned (except Enjolras the Asexual) and it quite ended their sudden infatuation.

"That seemed very anti-climactic," Cosette said.

"It was, rather," Marius agreed. "Grandfather, do you have any objections to me marrying Cosette?"

"Nope!" said Monsieur Gillenormand, dancing a little jig. "Hee-hee! Two weddings in one day!"

"Make it three!" exclaimed Joly, falling on his knees before Musichetta. "My dear mistress- you held me off with cruel persistence in the book itself before you realized how much fun threesomes were, but let us be yoked together for eternity in fandom."

"I have never had such a moving proposal in my life!" declared Musichetta, who had never actually had a proposal in her life. "I agree!"

"My God!" exclaimed Bahorel, with all the usually unspoken astonishment of an innkeeper realizing that, though he had sunk into the depths of degradation, his house-slave had become a member of the petite-bourgoisie. "This is like a horrible version of an ending of a restoration comedy!"

"We ought to read the collected works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan and love them!" cried Jehan, to show off the fact that he was gradually moving closer to a cannonically accurate characterization. "He supported our Revolution!"

"You're all so far to the left you make Napoleon Bonaparte look like a hippy," observed Monsieur Gillenormand.

"Grandfather!" cried Marius. "No more bashing on the incarnation of the French Revolution itself!"

"No bashing on the French Revolution by saying Buonaparte is its incarnation," snarled Enjolras.

"Excuse me," Eponine said, batting her long, luxurious eyelashes. "I believe we are nearing the end of the final chapter and I'm not yet married."

"We don't have a priest," Javert pointed out, ever alert when it came to the law.

"Not to wor-rah!" exclaimed Inspector Clouseau, bustling out of the room. "I 'ave a plan-uh!"

Several moments later, Inspector Clouseau toppled back into the room, dead.

No one knew quite what to do with him, so Combeferre nudged him into a waiting plothole.

"I think I have a better plan," said Eppie- Sue, gasping dramatically.

Five minutes later, a very confused bishop of Digne stepped out of the same convenient plothole that had eaten Inspector Clouseau. "I thought I was dead," observed the old priest.

"You were," said Eppie-Sue, "but I have the power to raise the dead, you know."

"Well, we didn't," said Javert, looking irate. "For God's sake, monseigneur, end this farce!"

So the Bishop did. "Fine. THE END."

And so, they all lived happily ever after, except for Clouseau, who died, and Valjean, who disappeared in a plot hole and was never heard from again.


End file.
